Rememberances
by Scooter
Summary: My spin on Area 88, as a rememberance. New series characters, original series characters, and original characters to be included
1. Episode 0

My name's Blackjack and I'm a fighter pilot. God, you have no idea just how much that sounds like a confession at an AA meeting. And, actually, I'm not really a fighter pilot; I fly ugly, slow attack planes. Granted, my last bird was nowhere near slow, and was as sexy as a young Sophia Loren. By the way, I'm also married to the King of Aslan's niece—Kitri Parnaveh. As for how, well, that is, in itself, a story.

It all started during the Aslan Civil War…

00000

"Double Echo, this is Blackjack, Three Zero Section. Enroute back from Point Three Five," the pilot of the old A-1H Skyraider called.

"_Roger that, Blackjack. I take it your mission was a success?_"

"Yeah, I think so. That's one more rebel tank column that won't threaten anyone anymore. Gotta love army cooperation missions," Blackjack said wryly into the microphone. "Blackjack out." Cutting communications before his controller from Area 88 could get the last word in, Blackjack settled into the inflated donut he was sitting on, and pulled back on the throttle to maximize fuel consumption. The big radial engine out front growled like a sated tiger.

While Blackjack kept a vigilant eye out for rebel fighters, while enjoying his return flight, his air-to-ground radio began squawking on the emergency net. "_Is there anyone out there? We need help,_" a panicky voice called over the net. Explosions, gunfire, and rocket fire could be heard in the background.

"This is Blackjack, Section Three Zero, Area 88. I need you to calm down and identify yourself."

"_Uh, I'm Private Jones, 3rd Corps Support Battalion, Aslan Army. There are rebel attack choppers all over us. We're on ASR Green; I guess about three miles west from Checkpoint Able. Hurry!_"

Looking at his maps, Blackjack was about fifteen minutes out. He racked the antiquated attack plane around, and jammed the throttle to the stops. "Double Echo, this is Blackjack, Three Zero Section."

"_Go ahead, Blackjack._"

"I just got a call from someone claiming to be part of the 3rd CSB on ASR Green, about three miles west of Checkpoint Able. Can you verify with Army Command that this isn't a trap? I'm still heading in, just in case."

"_We'll check, Blackjack. You want support, just in case?_"

"I think I can handle it." As he keyed off the radio, he could see smoke on the horizon, then black dots orbiting the smoke, which then resolved into choppers—Hips and Hinds. "This'll be interesting," Blackjack muttered. He armed his cannons and rolled in on the attack. As he closed on a Hip, his four 20mm cannons spat out armor piercing and high explosive rounds. The Hip exploded into a ball of flame, and dropped from the sky. "Splash one Hip," he called over the radio. The remaining choppers broke their formation, the Hinds going after Blackjack's Skyraider, while the Hips tried running.

Blackjack added power to the engine, and pulled into a big barrel roll, cutting the throttle at the top of the roll. The maneuver put him a good position to open up on the remaining three Hips, shooting them down. "Three Hips down," he announced, as he felt the impact of 30mm rounds hitting his plane. Glancing back, he saw the remaining four Hinds coming up his six o'clock.

Shoving the throttles forward, he pulled the plane into a Cuban 8, diving on the Hinds, wing-mounted cannons blazing as he walked the rounds left and right with the rudder. Three of the Hinds split off, one trailing smoke from it's rotor hub, while the lead chopper rolled into an inverted dive, before impacting on the rocky desert below. "Son of a bitch," he growled, as his radio squawked to life.

"_Blackjack, Double Echo._"

"Go ahead."

"_Your information is confirmed. 3rd CSB had a convoy heading to Firebase Delta. Their route took them along ASR Green._"

"Damn. Tell 3rd CSB that they're going to need to get some anti-air assets in their convoys. Looks like they shot the shit out of the convoy; no visibility on survivors. "

"_Understood. So how did you do?_"

"Four Hips, a Hind, and a probable on a Hind; he was trailing smoke."

"_Ah…roger. Saki'll want to see you about that when you get in._"

"Wilco, Blackjack out." As he turned to head back to Area 88, he was figuring out how to mount Sidewinders on his outboard pylons, and how much McCoy would charge him for the parts and missiles.

00000

With a slight bounce on his landing, Blackjack taxied off the runway and on to the apron. "Mickey's back, Campbell's back, Kid's back, Hoover's back. Looks like they survived. And it looks like we have a new pilot," he said to himself as he taxied to his spot for refueling. "Hey, Tran," he called to his former South Vietnamese Air Force crew chief, "talk to McCoy. I want to see about mounting Sidewinders on this thing."

"I'll ask, boss, but I don't think it's possible. You know as well as I that the 'raider was never planned for real air to air combat," he replied as Blackjack dropped off the wing and tucked his sooty flight gloves into his flightsuit.

"Yeah, but I got some hot intelligence about rebel army aviation." He paused, as he climbed into the open top Land Rover. "What was that crowd about, anyway?"

"We got ourselves…a WOMAN," Tran shouted, excited at the prospect of seeing some female flesh.

Blackjack raised an eyebrow. "Really?" His only answer was an enthusiastic nod from his crew chief. Blackjack shook his head as he headed for the command building.

He was standing outside the Commander's office, when the door opened. Blackjack's eyes opened further, when he saw this vision of loveliness walk out of Saki's office: long, blue-black hair, violet eyes that just captured the soul, and a body that the flightsuit molded to. He could almost feel his heart skip a beat when he looked at her. The last time he felt that way was back in Saigon. "Ma'am," he said, with a respectful nod. Kitri nodded, and continued on.

Roundel stuck his head out of the Commander's office. "Blackjack," he said.

Blackjack walked in, and nodded to Saki. "You wanted to see me, boss," he asked, as he wiped a greasy hand on his equally grimy flightsuit.

"Yes, I did. I'd like you to recount your rescue mission over ASR Green." Blackjack did so, with Saki listening, occasionally asking a question here and there. "The choppers, how did you know they were Hinds?"

"Other than the stubby wings with missiles hanging from the wingtips, and the fact that I only managed to kill one, and damage another, Saki? There was the greenhouse nose to recognize them. I think it might be prudent to start assigning anti-air assets to the convoys going anywhere near the front, boss."

"Alright. I'll let High Command know. That'll be all." Blackjack nodded, and walked out of the Saki's office.

00000

As he was scrubbing off the day's accumulated sweat, grime, and soot in the shower, the base intercom squawked to life. The other pilots were all talking about the only woman on the base. "_All personnel, report to the ready room at 2100 concerning our next operation. That is all._"

There was murmuring amongst the pilots, ranging from speculation about the mission to continued speculation about the new pilot. Kitri was sitting near the front, her head resting on her hand. When Saki walked in, the murmuring quieted down. As he walked to the podium, Roundel was already placing the marker tiles on the magnetic board. "Beginning tomorrow at sundown, the regular military is scheduled to undertake a large scale military operation to the northeast. In an effort to subdue the land-based threats from Sierra Lima, our mission is to neutralize the air defenses in their area of operation, and secure aerial dominance."

There was massive grumbling from the pilots. Mickey summed it up, beautifully, however. "Saki, you want us to poke around in the thicket first, so those nice boys don't get bitten?"

"That's it, precisely."

"Hey! Who do they think we are, some kind of errand boys or something," Greg shouted.

"Due to the seriousness of this mission all personnel are required to participate. With the exception of Kazama, who's currently without a plane; Blackjack, because of the speed required for this mission; and Kitri—you will also remain behind." Saki looked directly at his cousin, before explaining. "Before beginning combat activities, you will need to be brought up to speed on all navigational landmarks.

"That'll be all. Dismissed."

"All flight commanders, stay back, for additional information," Roundel said, as the pilots stood to leave." Roundel grabbed Blackjack by the arm. "Blackjack, a moment of your time."

He looked at the one-eyed Brit holding his arm. "I guess there's no getting by you, Roundel."

"We don't have any Army cooperation missions scheduled for tomorrow. So enjoy the day off."

"Gee thanks. Is there anything else, or were you going to ask me out on a date?"

"Do you know how that bucket of water got on top of Commander's door this morning, or at least who did it?"

"Sorry Roundel. Can't help you on that."

Blackjack caught up with Kitri. "Hey, wait up a second," he called. The lavender-eyed beauty stopped. "I saw you were kind of disappointed about being left behind."

Kitri looked the American pilot over. He wasn't in his best flightsuit, but it was his cleanest and hand the fewest oil spots on it. "What makes you think that I was disappointed," she asked, "Mr. …"

"Blackjack. Just Blackjack, ma'am." He gave her a wry grin. "Because you had this look like a little kid not getting what they wanted for Christmas."

"Perhaps you're right, 'Just Blackjack'," she replied, with a smile that made the ground attack specialist weak in the knees. She also took the opportunity to introduce herself. "Kitri Parnaveh."

"Pleased to meet you, Kitri. Any way, with the rest of the fighters going out on this mission, it tends to leave the base undefended," he said, as they walked back to the barracks, from the briefing room. "And the rebels always seem to know when we're undefended, and launch their attacks then. It's almost as if they've got a mole within the base."

"It maybe," Kitri said. "If I may ask, why are you here?"

"Only if I get the same," he countered. Kitri replied with a nod. "I was in Vietnam, flying Air Force Skyraiders on Combat SAR, close-air support, and interdiction missions. I got to like the taste of adrenalin, mixed with cordite and 130 octane. I flew the last Air Force 'raider to the boneyard in '76, and was waiting for a slot to upgrade to the first generation F-15s, until I pissed off the wrong people. After that, I flew fire bombers, bush planes, and crop dusters, until I saw a flyer looking for pilots."

"So, you are an adrenalin junkie, yes?" Blackjack nodded. "I see.

"You want to know why I'm here, yes?" He nodded. "I am watching my country tear itself apart, and I want to do something about it. My uncle thinks the Soviets will leave us alone if he wins the war, but with rubles come concessions for docking rights, and then bases, and finally a Communist state. My father would rather have the Americans here. After all, the dollar buys more than the ruble, yes?"

"Wait a second," Blackjack said. "Your father is…"

"The King of Aslan. He always said I had my mother's eyes."

"That makes…"

"The Commander my cousin." Kitri looked at Blackjack. "Are you alright?"

The information took him a few minutes to recover, but you still could have bowled Blackjack over with a feather. "I don't believe it," he muttered, "I'm hitting on Saki's cousin."

Kitri smiled at the flustered American, and patted his arm. "Then be glad it's my cousin commanding this base, and not my brother. He is very dedicated to the family, and would probably have had you flogged for even looking at me. Even without my father's consent."

"Oh brother," Blackjack muttered again. He noticed that they were standing in front of her barracks room. "Um…"

"I have another question for you. What do you know about Shin?"

"He's a virtuoso with a fighter. I've seen him pull stuff off that should be virtually impossible in anything, let alone a Crusader. It's like he's driven towards a goal, that's just within reach, but still out of grasp. As for his life back in Japan, he hasn't talked much about it. Hell, he hasn't talked about it at all. Nor has he opened up with that photographer guy.

"Kitri, I wouldn't go stirring up a hornet's nest, if I were you. Consider it a friendly warning."

It looked like Kitri was thinking over what Blackjack had said. "Well then, perhaps I will. Thank you for the conversation, 'Just Blackjack'," she said as she walked into her room.

Blackjack released the breath he was holding, as she closed the door behind her, and walked to his own quarters. "What, you think she was going to invite you in, moron? She's royalty, after all."

00000

Standing out on the flightline, Blackjack watched as the assault force taxied out and departed by sections. "I've got a bad feeling about this," he muttered. Tran walked up to him. "What's up Tran?"

"I talked to McCoy this morning, about mounting Sidewinders on a 'Raider."

"Oh?" That piqued Blackjack's interest. "What'd the old scrounger have to say?"

"Said it'd never been done before, but it shouldn't represent too difficult a problem."

"Good. Rig up the two outboard pylons on both wings, for permanent mounting. I'll also want the capability on the main inboard pylons."

"You sure about this, Blackjack? You're going to give up a lot of air-to-ground space. You think the benefit will offset the cost?"

"I do. Besides, there are Hinds out there now. Those bastards are armored like a tank. I was able to down one of them with a lucky shot today. Not again. Never again."

"Gotcha, Black…" Tran's voice trailed off as the air raid sirens began to wail.

Both pilot and crew chief began running around the Skyraider, preflighting the bomber. Blackjack climbed into the cockpit, and pulled out an old leather flying helmet and throat mike from the map pocket. The old radial engine coughed to life with a cloud of black smoke out of the short exhaust stacks. Tran pulled out the chocks from the left main, and signaled Blackjack he was clear. Advancing the throttles, he began taxiing to the runway, as he dialed in the day's tower frequency.

"_Kitri, this is an unauthorized sortie. Taxi back to the apron, and clear the runway._"

"_I came to swat down some flies, Commander_," was the terse reply as the Mirage F1 began rolling down the runway.

"Double Echo, this is Blackjack, Three Zero Section, taking off."

"_Has the whole base gone crazy? Blackjack, clear the runway and taxi your antique back to the apron. This is an unauthorized sortie._"

"Someone's gotta try to keep this base intact, Double Echo." With a growl, the Skyraider taxied down the runway and lifted off. As Blackjack orbited to gain altitude, he waved at Saki, Roundel and the staff in the tower. He kept his throttle going full bore as he climbed into the fight.

"_All right,_" he heard Kitri call over the radio, "_who wants the first kiss?_" A few moments later, the lead rebel fighter erupted into a ball of flame. A few minutes later, another ball of flame erupted, as a rebel MiG-17 fell prey to Kitri. "_Blackjack, you've got a bandit on your six_," she called.

Blackjack threw his fighter into a tight right turn, allowing the pursuing MiG-21 to overshoot. He rolled back on to the tail of the rebel fighter and opened up with his four 20mm cannons. Smoke trailed out of the right side of the rebel fighter; as it began accelerate away from the radial-engined fighter-bomber. The damage was done, however, as flame erupted along the wing. "Sayonara, sucker," Blackjack called, as the MiG exploded. He didn't have time to enjoy his kill, however, as he was quickly evading another MiG.

"_I've got it, Blackjack. Guns!_" Kitri called. Rounds from her 30mm cannons found their mark, but the rebel MiG blew up too close to her. Debris was sucked into her intakes. "_FOD in the engine? Damn._"

Blackjack had gotten on the tail of the rebel fighter, who was matching speed with Kitri's Mirage. "Kitri, break left. Guns," he called, his cannons found their mark, just as the rebel pilot launched an Atoll at the damaged Mirage.

The Atoll blew up, away from its mark, as Shin, in an F-4, blew through the cloud of smoke. "Kitri, get out of here. Blackjack, make sure she gets back to base safely," he ordered.

Blackjack waggled his wings as the remaining rebel MiGs chased after Shin's Phantom. Black smoke started coming out of Kitri's tailpipe. "Kitri, you're plane's smoking," he called.

"_Engine's failing,_" she replied. The master caution alarms could be heard over the radio.

Pulling his Skyraider aside of the stricken Mirage, he entered flight instructor mode. "Kitri, you're dead-sticking a Mirage." He called the tower. "Area 88, double Echo, this is Blackjack, declaring an emergency for Kitri, Zero-Zero section."

"_You think I don't know that_," she retorted. "_I'm going to bring this in_."

"_Blackjack, double Echo, roger. We're rolling recovery assets._"

"Come right, gently. Good. Watch your airspeed. Bring your nose down a couple of degrees. Good." Blackjack had his plane's gear out. "I'll be your instruments, Kitri. Keep your eyes outside. Four hundred feet, two miles to go. Three hundred feet, mile and a half. You're centered on the runway. Gear down." The base crash/rescue team were staged at the end of the active runway. "Gear's down and locked. Come right, a degree. That's it."

Sweat was pouring off Kitri, as she followed Blackjack's commands. It was just like she was back in flight school, but this time, it was her life on the line, not a grade. "_You're over the threshold. Speed brakes and flare._" She popped the speed brakes and flared the fighter. With a squeal, the mains hit the asphalt, and the nose dropped down, compressing the oleos, as the weight of the fighter settled down. With the remaining momentum, Kitri taxied off the runway and on to the sand, the crash trucks following behind her. Popping open the canopy, she looked at Blackjack pulling his plane into a barrel roll over the runway, before turning downwind for final to land.

Taxiing his plane to his revetment, Blackjack shut the radial engine down, and climbed out. Kitri was just walking past Shin, thanking him for the assistance, making a beeline for his Skyraider. He climbed off the wing, just as she walked up to him. "I don't like being indebted to anyone," she said, as she walked close to Blackjack. Makoto was snapping pictures the whole time.

Blackjack smiled at her. "Then, perhaps you would permit me to buy you a drink?"

"Offering to buy a lady a drink? How gallant," she replied. "Later, then perhaps." She ran off, her hair streaming out behind her.

"There's going to be a lot of pilots drowning their sorrows in booze tonight. Guess I better break into the warehouse stash," McCoy said, after watching the whole thing.

00000

My spin on Area 88, beginning with Episode Five of the new series. Expect original characters, new series characters, old series and manga characters, and hopefully, my usual high level of writing, along with some unusual fighters as the all-important, but background, characters.


	2. Episode 1

Obligatory Author's notes: I've been asked to describe the A-1 Skyraider, because it's such an old bird not many people are familiar with it. The Skyraider was the result of a Navy competition to replace both the TBM/TBF Avenger and the Curtis Helldiver with one aircraft. The winner was Douglas with the AD-series of planes. AD stands for Attack, Douglas, as the Navy had an independent numbering convention until 1962. After 1962, the AD-series became the A-1, with the unification of Air Force and Navy aircraft numbering conventions. The Skyraider had the unofficial nickname of "Spad" or "Sandy" during the Vietnam Conflict, mainly because it was one of the last prop attack planes in an all-jet conflict.  
Powered by a 2800hp Wright R-3350 radial engine (A-1J), the Skyraider was capable of carrying up to 8,000lbs of freefall or forward-firing ordinance, with enough armor plate that the VC despised the aircraft for it's ability to withstand small arms fire, and long loiter times. The plane was also armed with four M-3 20mm cannons in the wings.  
The Skyraider had a long service career with the US and allies from 1946 with the last 'Raiders retiring in 1979, going through several variations. There were night-attack, AWACS, electronic-warfare, air ambulance, transport, as well as the primary ground attack version. Out of 3,180 built only 19 are still airworthy.  
Any further questions, particularly about other aircraft can be directed to my email address provided in my profile.

00000

The door to the senior commander of the Aslan Air Force opened, then closed as the general's aide walked in. "Sir, I have the latest batch of applications for Area 88."

"Good, let me see them."

The major set the stack of applications on the desk. "Sir, I'm having reservations about some of them."

"Why?"

"Because a number of them are females," the major replied. "Having Her Highness out there flying and fighting was something I would not have allowed, sir."

"And you would have seen me…retired the next day," he countered, diplomatically. "His Majesty would rather see his daughter under the command of her cousin than in any of the regular units. There she gets a chance to prove her mettle against the enemy, as well as showing that she can lead as well; instead of sitting behind a desk, filling out paperwork. And it shows that we are—what is that American phrase again? Ah, yes—an equal opportunity employer."

"Sir, with respect, I do not like it."

"Major, the times are changing. If we are going to win this war, then we're going to need every able-bodied pilot we can pay. Gender will no longer be a concern of ours.

"If you don't like it Major, you can always go to the front to see it first hand."

00000

A flight of six fighters, as diverse as their pilots, touched down and taxied off the runway on to the apron. It was one of those few slow days, which allowed the maintenance crews to catch up on some much needed work on the planes. The Tiger II with the chocolate-chip style camouflage and the Ace of Spades on the tail didn't cause much of a stir. Neither did the Mystere with the guillotine. Although there was some comment about the sky blue F-100 with the barn door on the tail, as well as the Hawker Hunter with the bomb and guitar crossed. There were, of course, several cat-calls from the ground crew and other pilots with the pilot of the Hunter climbed out of her plane, in a skin-tight, almost painted on, silver flightsuit.

What caused the biggest commotion; however, were the positively antique T-6 Texan and the Henschel Hs-129. Especially since the old Luftwaffe tank-killer was sporting a pair of PT-6 turboprop engines on the wings. Blackjack looked over towards the antiques, particularly at the Texan. Under the cockpit sill was the cartoon figure of a tiger with a silk scarf trailing in the breeze. Walking over to the fighter that was even older than his beloved Skyraider, he recognized the pilot. "Uncle Morris?"

The WWII veteran turned around when he heard his name. "Nephew? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Same reason you're here," Blackjack replied, has he hugged his father's best friend. Makoto was snapping pictures of the apparent family reunion, after all something like this makes for the warm, fuzzy feeling that the Pulitzer Prize committee has a soft spot for. "By the way, I haven't gone by my name since I've gotten here. And I prefer it that way."

"So what the hell am I going to call you, 'Nephew' all the time?"

"Nah, Blackjack. Just Blackjack."

Morris slapped his nephew upside the head. "If your father were here right now…he'd probably kick your ass seven ways to Sunday."

"I know Morris. I know." Blackjack's father had been a member of the American Volunteer Group, prior to America's entry into WWII, flown with the Fourteenth Air Force, joined the Reserves after Japan's surrender, flew F-80s and F-86s over MiG Alley during the Korean War, but had been shot down by ground fire, the day before the cease-fire was signed. Morris, and several of his squadron mates searched from the wreckage out, but they couldn't find a trace of Blackjack's father. Search and Rescue personnel found not a trace of him in the wreckage, either. "So who's the old kraut?"

"Werner Kopf," Morris replied. "Apparently I'm not the only relic here. He flew missions for the Luftwaffe over the Soviet Union."

"Well, he'll see his fill of Russian equipment again." Werner had walked over to where Morris and Blackjack were. Blackjack turned to the old German, with his hand extended. "Welcome to Area 88."

"Danke, Herr…"

"Blackjack. Just Blackjack. We don't stand on formality here," he replied. "Come on let me show you two to Saki's office."

Saki was, at that moment, looking over four of his new pilots. Their personnel jackets were sitting on his desk, open with two others closed. "Your postings to Area 88 are approved. Prior to any combat missions, you will need to be brought up to speed on all navigational landmarks. Mr. Benson, you will be reporting to Mickey Simon in Zero-Zero Section. The rest of you will be reporting to Zero One Section, for the time being until I can properly place you. Your section leader is Kitri Parnaveh. Dismissed."

Roundel looked at Saki, as the latter lit a cigarette. "Two military pilots and two civilians. It'll be interesting to see how the civilians cope with warfare."

"Kazama did it, and he hasn't turned into a beast yet," Saki retorted. He picked up one of the files and read it aloud. "'Isabel Hilary Arthur, Flight Officer, Royal Air Force; dismissed for conduct unbecoming an officer.' Hopefully, she will straighten herself out."

Roundel picked up the jacket and read further. "'Disciplined for flying a Vulcan bomber under the Tower Bridge.' I just hope she did it at low tide or the bridge was up," he chuckled. "Sir, what do you want to do about Kitri?"

"What about my cousin?"

"Rumor has it that she's been seeing Blackjack ever since the day she got here. Well," Roundel amended, "since he coached her down after her fighter got hit."

"Kitri is a big girl," Saki said. "As long as it hasn't turned physical, then Blackjack has nothing to worry about. The moment I find out it has, then he had better be ready to take the next step."

00000

The briefing room was filled with the pilots and cigarette smoke, Blackjack sitting near the back of the room, lit cigar in his mouth. He tended to fly very few actual alpha strike-type missions because of his particular aircraft. Every pilot here knew that for a fully loaded jet to try to keep up with fully loaded Skyraider, the jet pilot would be hanging on the edge of a stall all the time. And even if the Army cooperation and C/SAR support missions weren't as lucrative as downing rebel MiGs or Sukhois, Blackjack wasn't here for the money.

Saki walked up to the podium, forestalling further conversation. "Good evening. Tomorrow's operation will hopefully shorten the war, and the regular military has not been involved in the planning and will not be involved in the execution of this mission. Intelligence has confirmed that a salt freighter will be departing the harbor of al-Baqaba, bound for Murmansk. Our mission will be to sink the freighter, preferably after it reaches international waters. However, as the civil war is a purely internal affair, the international community would not be surprised if we sank it within rebel waters."

"Wait a minute, Saki," Mickey said. "You want us to cross the frontlines, head to a probably very heavily defended harbor area, and sink a freighter in a mission that even the regulars wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole?"

"That is correct."

"You've got to be off your rocker, Saki," Greg complained.

"Just how are we going to do this? Unless McCoy has magically acquired Harpoons or LGBs, none of our planes can carry torpedoes."

Saki gave his argumentative pilots an exasperated look. "There is one plane that is capable of this mission, and due to the seriousness all pilots will be required to fly." Behind his sunglasses, he saw Blackjack starting to relax. _I've got him on this one_, he thought, chuckling inwardly. "The exceptions are Benson, Holman, Arthur, Claude-Boilleau, Kopf, and Harriman. You five will need to be brought up to speed on all navigational landmarks, and provide an alert fighter force if needed." Saki saw that Blackjack was sitting up straight. "Dismissed."

"Flight leaders remain for additional information," Roundel said, as the rest of the pilots stood and left.

With the briefing room empty, save for Shin, Blackjack, Mickey, Kitri, Greg, Saki and Roundel, Blackjack asked the question, after moving to the front. "Why am I going on this raid, Saki? My bird isn't fast enough to keep up with the others."

The fact that Blackjack had sat down next to his cousin wasn't lost on Saki. "Because your plane is the only one capable for this mission," he replied.

"Wait a minute. All of the other planes on this base are incapable of bombing this ship?"

"Capable of bombing, yes; torpedoing, no," Saki replied.

"As in "Battle of Midway"-style torpedo run?"

Saki smiled. "Yes. And you have the dubious honor of carrying out that mission, Blackjack."

"So let me get this straight," Mickey asked. "Blackjack will be carrying a torpedo across the country, and making a run against a freighter like it was 1940?"

"Yes. Well, he'll be carrying two torpedoes. McCoy isn't sure if they'll still fire."

"Great, what god did I piss off today?" Blackjack muttered, as Roundel explained the rest of the mission.

Morning dawned like any other in Aslan—clear and hot. There was barely the hint of a breeze over the airbase. As Blackjack walked down the flightline to his plane, it felt as though even God was holding His breath on this morning. Having spent most of last night, reading up on the tactics he was going to use tonight, Blackjack hadn't been able to get much sleep, and wanted to preflight his plane before this evening. Theoretically, it's a simple idea to torpedo a ship from a plane with an unguided torpedo: fly low and slow; 100 knots 100 feet off the surface of the water and eyeball the torpedo in. Reading the accounts of the Devastator squadrons at Midway had put a chill up the pilot's back.

Approaching one of his revetments, Blackjack looked in. Sitting there on dollies were the two torpedoes he was to carry. "Beauties ain't they," McCoy said. "My supplier found them in the back of a warehouse in Germany, still in their crates. Says they go back to World War II. Damn shame I've got to use them here. I could probably make a pretty penny selling them to a museum or collector."

"Will they work?" Blackjack asked, hesitantly.

"They'll work. I had Mucho Loco go over them yesterday. She certified them as live munitions," the old scrounger replied. Airman Vasquez was the only one crazy enough to play with live munitions to see if they work. "She even tested the firing mechanisms to see if they'll work. And they did."

"I hope to God that she's right. It won't be her ass in a sling if they don't go off."

"I know, I know," McCoy said, sympathetically. He started to walk off. "By the way, I've got the rails you need for your birds. Have Tran stop by tomorrow."

Blackjack nodded as he began his walkaround of his attack plane. Tran had taken off the additional hardpoints under the wings, to conserve weight, while a fuel tank sat on the centerline hardpoint. He checked the fuel levels in all the tanks, and noted with satisfaction that the fuel level was at the bottom thread of the filler port.

Kitri walked up to the Skyraider, and walked around it. "An amazing aircraft," she said, as she ran her hand along the straight wing. "Obsolete, and yet still quite capable of handling itself in a fight."

Blackjack looked up from one of the starboard guns, where he and Tran were cleaning the barrel. "In the hands of a skilled pilot, this old bird is capable of shooting down a jet. It isn't always the plane, but the pilot. You stick a green Russian pilot in their latest piece of equipment and Chuck Yeager in his P-51, Yeager'll win hands down."

"Yes, I remember that well from the other day," Kitri replied. "Blackjack, why do you have a smiley face painted on your tail?"

He looked at his crew chief first. "You okay with this, Tran?"

"Yeah, I got it," he replied. "Go talk to your girlfriend," he added in Vietnamese.

Blackjack gave his crew chief a dirty look, as he climbed off the wing of the attack plane and walked over to Saki's cousin. He leaned against the wing, as he told his story. "I flew Spads with the Second Special Operations Squadron out of Bien Hoa. We all painted nose art on our planes like it was 1945, and for some reason I didn't feel like having a nudie cutie on my nose. So I decided to paint a smiley face on my plane."

"I see. And the reason that you have 'Have a Nice Day' painted on the underbelly?"

"Because I'm twisted," Blackjack replied, a sardonic grin on his face. "Because the last thing I want the rebels to see is that corny, hackneyed phrase sending them to Hell."

Kitri smiled at him. "Good, then we are on the same wavelengths."

"You want to go have a drink with me?"

"You know we go wheels up in nine hours," she replied. "We're within the 12 hour limit."

Blackjack smiled sheepishly. "A cup of coffee then? And not the runway sealant they brew in the canteen." Kitri nodded, and they headed back towards the barracks.

McCoy noticed the two from his PX, and smiled. "Well, I wonder when I'm going to need to break into the precious gemstones. That engagement will be a first for here."

00000

As the sun set in the west, pilots and ground personnel headed towards their planes. Turbines began wailing, some coughing clouds of smoke. With the whine of the inertial starter, the blades of Blackjack's 'Raider started turning. When he hit sixteen blades (four rotations), Blackjack hit the starter. With a coughing fit, the big Wright radial began to rumble to life. Letting the engine idle and warm up, Blackjack ran through the last sections of the checklist. "Tower, Blackjack, Three Zero Section. Ready to taxi," he called over the radio, after waiting for the other pilots to call their taxi requests in.

"_Blackjack, Tower. Cleared to taxi._"

"Roger." He signaled Tran, who pulled the chocks, and advanced the throttle. The big Douglas fighter-bomber began rolling out of the revetment, turning towards the flightline. Zero-Zero section was already taking off; Shin, Mickey, Hoover, and Campbell, all in formation. One Zero section started their roll down the runway, and were airborne moments later.

Kitri looked over to the Skyraider, gave Blackjack a thumb's up, and advanced the throttles of her Mirage. Her wingman kept pace with her as the fighters roared down the runway.

The radio in the 'Raider crackled to life. "_Blackjack, you are cleared for takeoff. Godspeed and good hunting._" Taxiing into position, Blackjack stood on the breaks as he advanced the throttles, letting manifold pressure and revolutions stabilize. Letting off the brakes, he added a heavy boot to left rudder to keep his fighter heading straight down the runway. The Skyraider accelerated sluggishly, with the two torpedoes under the wings and a belly full of avgas weighing it down. Slowly though, the tail lifted off the runway, and the warplane lifted off, clawing its way into the still air.

Radio silence had been strictly observed on the approach across the frontlines. All the pilots on the strike mission were left to their own thoughts, as they flew a circuitous route to al-Baqaba to avoid detection by radar, without the comfort of radio chatter, except for those with a backseater, but even then, conversation quieted after awhile as they ran out of things to talk about. Blackjack sat in the stygian darkness of his cockpit, the red-lit instruments his only companion. As they flew over the front, artillery and tank cannons could be seen firing, their flashes like ground-based lightning.

Al-Baqaba became visible on the horizon, waste gas flames and streetlights highlighting it's location against the dark desert night. Blackjack flicked his navigation lights on and off three times, the arranged code signal for the rest of the fighters. Two fighters stayed with the Skyraider, providing cover in case the diversion wasn't successful.

Already traces could be seen to the north of the small formation, along with rocket motors igniting as SAMs streaked skyward and searchlights pierced the night skies. To the northwest, afterburner torches denoted rebel fighters being scrambled to meet the threat. The radio came alive with chatter from the other mercenaries, as their part of the plan was met. Lights within al-Baqaba started shutting down, as the rebel authorities implemented blackout procedures. "Crap," Blackjack muttered, "how the hell am I going to spot that damn freighter now?

"Huntress," he said, keying his mike, "turning inbound now."

"_Affirmative, Blackjack_," Kitri replied. "_We're climbing to 5 thousand for overwatch._"

As he neared the harbor entrance, Blackjack's prayers were answered. It was almost as if the moon was acting like a giant spotlight, illuminating the harbor; a washed out high noon, where everything was in shades of grey. And the salt freighter was right in front of Blackjack, broadside to him, silhouetted by the light. It couldn't have been a more textbook target approach. Airspeed and altitude were both pegged at 100. "Torpedo one…away," he called over the radio, as the port hardpoint released the torpedo. He pulled up and banked to the right, letting the weight of his remaining torpedo pull him around.

The torpedo performed as advertised. It ran hot, straight and normal right into the hull…of a Soviet intelligence trawler that just happened to be passing the freighter. "Son of a bitch," Blackjack growled. "Target denied. I hit the wrong fucking ship, Goddamnit. Rolling in again." He finished his 180 degree turn, got on the same attack plan, and could see muzzle flashes of rifles as the crew of the freighter fired at him.

With some random fire from his cannons, the crew scattered around the deck of the ship. "Torpedo two…away!" Blackjack yanked back on the stick, and climbed with scant feet to spare over the freighter's masts…and into the furball that was above him. He was silhouetted by the explosion and subsequent fire when the torpedo impacting against the freighter's fuel tanks.

"_Blackjack_," Kitri called over the radio, "_dive and get out of here._"

With 23mm cannon shells hitting his fuselage, he complied, throwing his fighter around in a series of complicated jinks. "Hey, I see a nice, juicy target of opportunity," he called.

Sitting tied up to the refinery's loading dock was another ship; one with three domes on her deck. As Blackjack was walking his cannon rounds towards the ship, Mickey saw what he was doing. "Jesus Christ! Everyone, bug out! Bug out, or you're going to get cooked!" The former naval aviator wracked his Tomcat around in a tight turn, the wings stretching out like angel's, as his afterburners lit the night sky.

"_Blackjack, what the hell are you doing,_" Kitri all but shouted into the radio.

"Going after a nice, juicy target of opportunity," he replied, the chatter of his 20mm wing cannons audible over the radio. He looked up through the gunsight at what he was actually shooting at, and the reality of the situation hit home. Filling the windscreen was 140 thousand cubic meters of liquefied natural gas carrier. And the bullets were already in the air. _Oh shit_, Blackjack thought to himself, _I'm going to die._ As he jammed the throttle to the stops and flipped on the water injection, it was already too late.

The rounds for the cannons were a mix of high explosive, armor piercing, incendiary, tracer, and ball. All it took was three rounds to create Hell on Earth. The first was an armor piercing round, punching through the double wall tank, releasing the gas. Once the incendiary and tracer entered the gas cloud, the gas ignited, creating a Hiroshima-like mushroom cloud.

00000

"You have the look of someone waiting for their lover," Makoto remarked, snapping a couple of pictures of Kitri. "Can't be Shin, since he landed with the main body. So is it Blackjack?"

"You still have the look of a predator looking for prey," Kitri shot back. Her look softened, slightly. "Tell me something, what do you know of Blackjack?

"Blackjack? As far as I know, he's a Vietnam vet, like Mickey. He tends to take calculated risks that have put him in favor with the ground-pounders. I've been on a couple of missions with him, so I've seen how he flies. It's like he's got a death wish or something.

"I also think he's the base prankster, but I could be wrong about that. No one knows who's been targeting Saki for practical jokes, but it's never the same type of joke, and never more than once a week. Rumor has it, they started when Blackjack got here, though."

"I see," Kitri said. They heard a familiar buzz that sounded off, and as she looked up, Kitri smiled, but the smile turned to concern. "Ah, Blackjack is back…" There was a plume of black, oily smoke pouring out of the engine. "Makoto, go get help!" The photographer took off, running for the nearest hangar to sound the alarm, as Blackjack's 'Raider looped around to land. The engine finally sputtered to a halt, as the crankcase ran out of oil. The propeller windmilled as the plane sank towards the runway threshold, before impacting in a shower of sparks as it skidded out of control towards the tower.

The disabled fighter came to a halt just off the runway, as friction overcame momentum, and Kitri was off like a bat out of hell towards the fighter. As she got closer, she could see the paint was scorched, the Plexiglas canopy shattered. Climbing up on to the wing, Kitri could see that Blackjack was barely conscious and bleeding from multiple wounds, and pulled him out of the wrecked fighter, just as the meat wagon pulled up. The medics took the seriously wounded pilot from Saki's cousin, and hightailed it to the base hospital.


End file.
